


like an angel (too good to be true)

by LeahRocky



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: #1969, Bev owns a bar, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Beverly-centric, F/M, I just wanted to practice writing something else, So yeah, Strangers to Lovers, historical fic, if you liked the vibes check out my other fic!, just a happy little drabble, surfer, that one is reddie centric, this is actually in the same universe as my other fic, this is just how Ben and Beverly got together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22183048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeahRocky/pseuds/LeahRocky
Summary: Beverly and Ben meet outside her bar in Hawaii in 1965
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	like an angel (too good to be true)

“You’re like an angel, too good to be true,” - Rosie & The Originals

Beverly is staring at the setting sun as it cast golden sun rods across her bar, The Melon. It was Sunday, so she was closing early. Sundays were slow because most of her regulars only came on nights where they didn’t have to face the mindless thrum of work the next morning, and tourists only came around midday on weekdays. She had long since learned not to try and force herself to tears of boredom, after several nights of doing nothing at her empty bar, thoroughly devoid of customers. It just left her lonely, feet knocked high on the bar, and a cigarette long abandoned, leaving a wispy trail of smoke.

Instead, Beverly has decided that it was high-time to enjoy the little things. She took Sundays for herself now. So, this Sunday, with the summer heat so tempting, she locks up shop and runs to her squat little office to change. She pulls out her tucked-away little red bikini, and changes, the ghost of her closing drink, a Mojito, still tart on her lips.

She tries to ignore the fact that she’ll be lonely tonight. Her friends with their regular jobs would be sleeping early, and the beach looked empty all day. No strangers to chat up. Richie August, a goofy little beachbum and her most _regular_ regular, wouldn’t even be around to entertain her, having gone off to Maui to earn some extra cash on a construction site. No cigarettes to bum off of him tonight. And that pretty girl who had stopped by the bar a few weeks ago seems to have fucked back off to the mainland, so she can’t even ring her for a good time. 

She can ignore that for now. With a final pull on the string of her bikini, and a quick slip on of her flip-flops, Bev grabs the fluffy white towel, and darts out of her bar, locking up behind her.

She doesn’t even notice the man leaning against the lamppost.

“Closing up?”

“Sure am,” Bev says, hardly glancing in his direction. She doesn’t feel like being begged to stay open, having already changed and closed everything down, just so some guy can get his drink on.

“I thought bars in Hawaii stayed open all through the night,” the man says, in a voice so deep it sounds like boulders rubbing together.

Bev laughs, eyes still focused on the lock in front of her. “Not on Sundays,” she says, kind of hoping that will be enough to shut the guy up so she can go enjoy the sun on her skin.

“Well, that’s alright then. Wouldn’t want to put you out,” the man replies and Bev finally looks up.

_Oh. Oh wow._

He’s tall, almost taller than lanky ol’ Richie, but his smile is so wide and so bright that Bev wonders if it’s legal.

She smiles back, a half-smile, but a smile nonetheless. Guys who look like that are almost always trouble.

“Yeah, nobody comes around this late on Sundays,” she says.

“Nobody except for me, yeah?” the man replies.

Beverly laughs, “Yeah, I guess except for you. You’ll still be around tomorrow? Maybe you could swing by then, if you’re still in town.”

“Oh no, am I giving off a outta-towner vibe?” the man asks and looks genuinely _embarrassed._ That easy to make a guy like that blush like that? Beverly feels like it can’t be real.

“A bit,” Beverly admits, and the guy blushes deeper.

“I just moved here, actually. So you’re half-right,” the man says.

“I’ll take it.”

“I should lose the hat, huh?” the man asks, as he thumbs the edge of his straw-hat.

“Nah, I like it,” Beverly responds, because she does. It makes him look honest. “Come back tomorrow and I can fix you up with a drink,” Beverly says, and tries to ignore her heart hoping that he’ll say yes. 

“What time do you open tomorrow?” the man asks.

“Four o’clock. But nobody gets here that early,” Beverly responds.

The man smiles and nods, like Beverly told him a secret. “I’ll see you at four,” the man says, and turns around, his posture easy and relaxed.

“Hey, I didn’t catch your name!” Beverly shouts back over the sound of whistling palm-trees because just a few words between them doesn’t feel like enough at all.

The man loops back around, his hand on his hat, and smiles that unbelievable smile again. “It’s Ben. And yours?”

“Beverly,” she says, but it falls from her mouth like a secret.

“I’ll see you at 4, Beverly,” the man says, and Beverly’s heart catches. The sun is on her back like golden heat, and out of the corner of her eye she can see her red hair catching the sun, setting fire around her. 

And she giggles, like a child, because _Ben._

The beach is warm and the sand is warm and it’s everything familiar, but in a way she’s never used to, never will be used to. She settles against the sand and reads, her eyes pointed and green and squinting in the falling sun. Her book is interesting, and the sky is beautiful, but her mind is elsewhere. On bright white smiles and straw hats. She dozes, and the sun graces her skin like warmth and heat, and she lets her mind wander and lets her heart beat.

.

The next day, when Beverly opens up The Melon, she does so with the hope that the doors will open to this tall mysterious stranger. _Ben._ It’s too much to hope, probably. Who said he had to come back? Who said he would actually be there, punctual at four? It’s too much to hope for, probably. She heaves the doors open anyway.

And, with a shock, her hopes are met. Because Ben is standing there, straw hat and all.

“You’re here!” Beverly says and can’t help the excitement that laces her voice.

“I said I would be, didn’t I?” He asks, in a way that isn’t condescending, like most men are when they speak to her. As if by nature she’s a stupid little girl and nothing else. But that doesn’t float through Ben’s words, not at all.

“I suppose you did,” she says, and turns around, to open the windows, and let in the salty air.

Ben strolls in behind her, and Beverly notices how quiet his steps are. As if every move is deliberate. Like every step he has is measured. Controlled.

Beverly isn’t controlled. And as if to juxtapose it on purpose, she leans into the chaos of her movements, working quickly and loudly, embracing the name Hurricane, that Richie so frequently called her.

“Need any help?” the man asks.

Beverly throws her head back and shouts, “Never!”

Ben orders whiskey, straight, and Beverly watches him drink it in slow and quiet sips. He focuses on the glass, or on his hands, or in quiet gentle glances toward Beverly’s unashamed stare.

“So, you just moved here?” she asks, finally cutting through the silence that felt all too comfortable for strangers.

“Sure did. Bought a house ‘bout a mile west of here,” he answers, gesturing with his thumb.

“You liking it so far?” Beverly asks, her voice nearly echoing in the empty bar.

“What’s not to like?” Ben asks.

“We got our problems out here,” Beverly replies, and her cheeks almost hurt from how much she’s been smiling. 

“You don’t look too troubled.”

Bev watches as Ben leans forward on the bar, and the dusty sun circles his head like a halo. “I might be troubled,” Beverly responds. “You should see some of my patrons.”

“They give you trouble?” Ben asks.

“Sometimes,” Bev responds.

“You fight back?”

“Always.”

Ben smiles, and downs the rest of his drink.

.

When Ben leaves an hour after arriving, a quiet step away into the growing crowd in The Melon, Beverly is sad. She had only gotten a quick ‘goodbye’ between the burgeoning sounds of drink orders and laughter, and Beverly didn’t think it was enough. They hadn’t even talked much. They learned the necessary beginnings of each other, and it felt like only an appetizer. 

So when Ben appeared, the next day, four on the dot, Beverly was over the moon.

“You came back!” Beverly says, excitement running ahead of her.

“Who else is gonna get me acquainted? Teach me how to not look like a tourist?” Ben asks, his cowboy strut so wide, so open.

“What, am I just a guidebook?” Beverly teases as he follows her inside.

Ben laughs. “Only if I’m just a customer.”

Beverly bites her lip to stop from smiling so wide she thinks she’ll double over.

She makes him a mojito despite the old-fashioned he orders, and says it’s on the house, because you don’t get that Ben-kind of punctuality just anywhere.

He takes a sip, says it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, and Beverly says she’s the best bartender on the island. Ben says he’ll take her at her word because he feels no need to test it.

“Such loyalty. You got a girl at home that you’re just as loyal to?” Beverly asks despite herself. 

“It’s just me.”

Bev thinks she could change that.

The bar doesn’t get too busy that day, so they have nearly an entire hour together. Beverly gets lost in telling stories of the bar, and of Richie, and of nights where she’s gotten so drunk, she fell asleep under the moonlight, head in the sand. Ben watches her, with growing eyes, with easy laughter. The clock hits five, and he stands up, tries to put down a five, and Beverly shoos his hand away.

“Didn’t I tell ya? On the house,” she says with a smile.

“I can’t let you be so kind to me,” Ben responds.

“Well, you’re not just a patron, are you?” she asks, and delights when the ruby red blush rounds his cheekbones.

.

It becomes a sort of ritual, Ben coming in right as Beverly opens, ordering a whisky, or sometimes a mojito, when he’s feeling relaxed. He tells her about building, and construction sites, and his plans for the future and Beverly tells him about her bar, her patrons. Sometimes, on the quietest days, or days where it rains holy hell around them, she’ll tell him about her past. 

Soon, 4 o’clock on the dot is Beverly’s favorite part of the day. She’ll sit back, a book by the side, but never opened, drinking a Coke, while Ben nurses at his drink and smiles at her. He’ll sometimes match her, and order a Coke as well, and they’ll sit, and Beverly will yearn to finally close the distance between them and taste if Coke tastes any differently on his tongue.

Beverly finishes reading Catch-22 and moves on to Catcher in the Rye, enjoying the way it sent shivers down her spine despite the heat under the sun. New York City in the snow never felt so far away.

.

When Ben meets Richie, on a sweltering day in the middle of June, it’s like an explosion. Richie is giggly and moon-eyed, and Bev suspects he has something of a little crush. Richie buys him an extra drink, calls it a Welcome-to-the-Island gift, and winks the whole way through. Ben looks at Beverly to save him, all in good fun, but it’s all a bit too entertaining for Beverly to pull Richie away. The punch that Richie buys for Ben stains Ben’s lips red and Beverly wants to lick it off.

When Ben leaves that day and Richie hangs around, Beverly makes herself clear.

“I like him, Rich,” Beverly says.

“What’s not to like? They don’t make men like him, do they?” Richie asks. “And I could tell, ya know. You aren’t so slick.”

“And neither are you, Casanova. Watch it,” Beverly says.

“Whatcha talking about?” Richie asks but he blushes. Bev grants him a free drink, since she did just threaten him and all. Richie takes it all in stride.

“He likes you too,” Richie says, as he sips at the mojito.

“Drink up, sweetie,” Beverly responds, and turns her face so Richie can’t see her blush.

.

In late June, Beverly knows she has a crush.

Well, she knew she had a crush from the moment she saw Ben’s easy smile, his gentle blush. But by late June, it’s become all consuming. 

The heat of the summer and the heat of her heart have wrapped her into an unavoidable frenzy of emotion. When she cleans the bar at night, she thinks of Ben’s forearms, muscled and tan, leaning against the warm wood of the bar. When she polishes glasses until they shine, she thinks of his eyes, blue and sparkling. When someone orders an old-fashioned. When a customer laughs and their voice is deep like Ben’s. When Richie giggles about some girl, and Beverly wonders what Ben is doing that night.

Beverly knows it’s all too much, but she can never hate herself for feeling. She’s always felt things this way. Insurmountable emotions piling through her body high like a tower, threatening to topple. All she can do is try to steady herself. And Ben is steady.

.

The mid July brings in new tourists, and their private meeting time at four on the dot starts to get interrupted by sunburned tourists with tanning-oiled skin and bursting-at-the-seems beach bags. So, Beverly starts opening up even earlier. Beverly names this secret time, the hours from three to four, Ben-Hour. He’s the only customer allowed in, and she gets to start the day off right.

One day, during Ben-Hour, Ben orders a mojito and tells Beverly a secret.

“You know, that day I met you…” he starts.

“Oh no, Ben, are you going to ruin your cool-guy facade?”

“I think I ruined that long ago,” he says.

“Yeah, you did,” Beverly admits.

“Well, on that day, I sat outside your bar for about two hours, before I decided to go in. And that’s when you came out and locked up,” Ben says.

“You did?” Beverly asks.

“Yeah. Couldn’t work up the nerve to go in. Not until it was too late, anyways.” Ben is blushing hard.

“Why’s that? Are you afraid of bars, Benjamin?” Beverly asks.

“No,” Ben says and smiles, before finishing his drink.

“Aw, Ben, then what was the problem?” Beverly asks.

“Your hair,” Ben responds, and he’s redder than a beet. Redder than her hair.

“My hair? What, do you not like it?” Beverly asks, and she’s confused. Is this some sort of long-winded insult?

“I liked it. Too much. You were intimidating,” Ben admits.

“Me?” Beverly asks and her heart is in her throat. “Intimidating?”

And Ben says, “Yeah,” with a smile that’s quiet and secretive.

“You’re cute,” Beverly says, because the thought of leaning over and kissing that smile away is too much.

.

On a hot day in August, where Beverly can think only of abandoning the bar, and running out to the waves, Ben arrives for a second time. It’s 7pm, the heat hasn’t quit, and Beverly thinks it’s her luck day because Ben is _back._

“Can I steal you away?” he asks, and Beverly wants to say yes.

“It’s a bit early to close,” Beverly responds.

“It’s a bit hot for you to stay open,” Ben matches.

“What would Richie say if I closed early? He’ll be here soon, getting wasted before his show, ya know. If I close, I can’t serve him, and how’s he gonna delight the people of Honolulu without three sheets to the wind?”

“Oh, let him whine,” Ben responds, and reaches out for Beverly’s hand.

She fingers at his palm, the touch so tempting.

She locks up early and follows him.

They go out on the beach, amidst the lingering humidity that turns Beverly’s curls to wispy thick cotton, and Ben leads her to a dock. A boat is waiting there, at the ready, standing strong and big against the mounting waves.

“Can I take you for a ride?” Ben asks.

“Yes,” Beverly says, and they climb aboard.

The heat isn’t as stifling when the air whips through her hair and the boat is buffering against the tight waves. Ben is tight-lipped about their final destination, and Beverly can’t stop staring. 

When the sun finally crests, and the island is miles away, and glittering reds shimmer across the endless blue, Ben finally stops. The sun is warmth on Beverly’s back and Ben is warmth in her heart, in her lungs. She thinks she could drown in it.

“I wanted to give you a proper thank-you,” Ben says, when the air around them finally stills. He reaches down and pulls out a bottle of wine.

“A thank-you?” Beverly asks.

Ben laughs. “Yeah. You took me in and all. Didn’t let me go around acting like a tourist and all.”

“That’s just the way we welcome people on this island,” Beverly responds, and laughs at him, daring her hand to reach out and trace light lines along his wrist. Gentle.

“Fine,” Ben says with a chuckle. “Then take it as payment back for all those free drinks you give me.”

“They’re not all free,” Beverly teases and winks.

Ben blushes and Beverly savors it. It’s her favorite thing. To make him blush like that. Like the day they met.

Ben pops the bottle open and pours their drinks in easy glasses. Silver white wine, beautiful and sweet. Beverly tastes it, and it’s such a contrast, the cold sparkling bubbles against the languid heat, soaking around them. The bubbles are like snowflakes on her heating tongue. The water is blue behind them and Ben is tan and warm, a permanent silhouette. 

They drink in that easy silence they’re both so used to, and watch the sun dip into violet abandon. When they finish their glasses, they jump into the lazy summer water. The rush of water, still cold in its depths, and different then the unending heat, sends shivers through Beverly’s skin.

Underneath the waves, Beverly reaches out for him, to ground her. Her hands find his stomach in the dark blue and she holds tight to its warmth. His arms reach out, and grasp her back, by her elbows. Like puzzle-pieces. They breach back above the water and laugh. Beverly savors how easy it is to touch when you’re hidden like this, hidden in the depths of water and secrets and wet-cold against sun-warm skin.

Ben reaches above the water and away her hair. His fingers, still warm, grace her cheekbone.

And the building heat is too much.

So, she leans forward and they kiss.

Two bodies, free of heat, free of secrets, floating in the endless abyss, warm reds and yellows on their skin like dust, and they kiss like they’ve known each other forever. His lips are as warm as she’s always dreamed, and his skin melts to hers in a way she could have never expected. Her eyes are fluttered closed, but she wants to open them, just so she can take it all in. 

So she pulls away, and looks at his blushing red face, his red lips, his eyelashes wet with salty sea water, and kisses him again. They kiss and hold each other until stars open up above them, glittering across the waves, and they climb back into his boat and kiss some more.

They tuck in, under fluffy white towels, watch the night sky and each other. And Beverly is happy.


End file.
